Twister of Fate
by Blue-eyesThropp
Summary: Ding dong, the witch is dead! But how exactly did she die? What happened that fateful day in Oz? And was the witch, perhaps, not as wicked as perceived? T because of house-crushing and subject matter.


**Author's Note: Well, I can't say I'm not proud to have published two stories in a matter of days. Looks like I've started to redeem myself for that long period of absence -). Now, I'm not sure how this will be accepted, but this puppy has been sitting my files for yonks now, and I recently rediscovered and finished it. Also, I'm really excited to be posting Wicked fanfics again because, as some of you will know, I was totally Wicked-ed out for ages. So, I hope you all enjoy this!  
Love, Blue-eyes**

**Summary: Ding dong, the witch is dead! But how exactly did she die? What happened that fateful day in Oz? And was the witch, perhaps, not as wicked as perceived?**

**Disclaimer: Everything belongs to Gregory Maguire. All I own is a rickety old computer. Sometimes, I wish I'd profit from these fanfictions, but I don't. **

Twister of Fate

The table of prizes and material praises stood, the trinkets glistening in the late afternoon sunlight. She smiled faintly, kissing the hands of every Sunday school attendant worthy of winning a prize this year. It was a tedious job and had little if no sense. The love of the Unnamed God was to be rewarded with the entrance into his realm after death, and with a sense of fulfillment one could achieve through nothing else, not with anything of monetary value or value to any other than the believer himself.

The Munchkin girl smiled up at the Eminent Thropp, and she bowed her head to a helper, who handed a small trophy to the girl and read the words of approval.

"Thou shall serve for many decades in the will of the Unnamed God  
His will shall be thy command  
Thou shall pursue…"

She knew the words by heart, had heard them so frequently when she was a young girl. "Though shall pursue the life in such forms and ways as He sees fit, thou shall be His beloved child for ever more, and He thy beloved Father, to grant thee willingly thine deserved entrance into his heavenly realm. With thy love for Him live, with thy faith for Him set free thine soul." Then the child was dismissed, and another stepped forward. Customarily, the words were read to each individual, and a prayer was said at the closing of the ceremony by all.

It was windy afternoon, sometime in the middle of the Season of Renewing. The children were getting restless and cold. The air truly was biting, nipping on ears and noses, chomping on fingers and toes, and large clouds were starting to cover the sun like a curtain slowly falling at the end of a play. The lady reading the verses Nessarose should, as the Eminence, rightfully have read, if it wasn't for her being unable to hold the scroll herself, was facing the difficult task of keeping hold of the scroll against the thieving hands of the winds well. Indeed, she soon had lost her grip on the flimsy piece of parchment, and watched, helplessly, as it floated away with surprising ease and without any resistance through the storm that was brewing.

Nessarose strode on obstinately and determinedly. She was going to round off the ceremony today, or not at all. She had been in a terrible temper lately, and did not have nearly enough patience for kissing babies and chortling praise, nor for tolerating the volume to which the many voices of the crowd had risen. As the scroll was now lost, and would probably not be retrieved ever again, she hastily called for silence and commenced.

The prayer was sung well, for the first part, and the Eminence was proud that he had successfully silenced the restless crowd. The monotonous ceremonial song continued, but Nessarose realized that the voices of the villagers were growing quieter and quieter, until only the most devout believers were still singing. Nessarose felt that it went to show; whoever managed to continue praying, without being perturbed by any external happenings was a true believer. Still, something worried her about the silence.

It was as though someone had laid a thick blanket over the crowd. The hushed tones in which people started whispering were disturbing, and when even the last voices had become suddenly mute, as though someone had slowly pulled the sounds from the people's throats, even Nessarose lifted her head.

There was not one person in the crowd that wasn't either gazing upwards with great fear or whispering to their friends and family in hushed tones. The sky was growing darker and darker. The wind picked up. The folk's voices became louder and louder. Not a single person could make them self heard over the monstrous voice of the wind, shouting louder than any person ever could, screeching at the people to run or die.

Nessarose spoke in calm tones to the people.

"People of Munchkinland! I speak to you from above, with the voice of The Unnamed God," a voice in the crowd was calling her obscene names unfit for even the crudest of people to utter, calling the most unjust accusations, "martyr yourself! Love Him and He shall see you through the storm if he sees fit. Suffer for Him, and those who do well will be spared!"

The people were running, in spite of her words, scattering, a flock of scared sheep, and all pious speeches went unheard. As the wind continued to rage war against the people, even Nessarose could not withstand the urge to flee. She needed assistance, though, for even the shoes- cursed or blessed, what where they now?-could hardly help her to the great extent she required. Whipping her delicate head from side to side, she spied not a single person who may have lent her a hand- two hands, in this case. With the wind blowing so fiercely, rumbling as it was, facing even the half dozen leading down from the platform was facing treachery. She descended in spite of that. If she was meant to, she would alight on her feet, not her face.

Having descended the stairs with a considerable success, and only little uncertainty of step, the Eminence faced a further challenge. Her slight form was immediately jostled backwards and forward, so much so that all perspective of the world was lost, as perhaps a ragdoll might be jostled in a group of playful girls. She could not hold herself against the crowd, and, losing her balance at the hands of a very rotund Munchkin, fell to her knees.

Nessarose bowed her head and hunched over in an effort to protect herself from the panicking Munchkins. Most were fleeing into the forest, some dove into bushes; those blessed with common sense were running home to the safety of their cellars. There was much fighting around her, and the some weaker Munchkins fell to the ground also, but not one of them considered assisting their ruler.

She was alone, weak, frightened, in spite of the shoes which, she had believed, gave her such power. In her eyes, there was only one thing to do: crouched on the ground, Nessarose raised her head to the sky, the wind whipping at her face.

"If I have served Thee well, grant assistance and protection from the storm. Hallowed be Thy Name, which to no man known. Unnamed God, I beg Thee," her last words were lost in the screaming wind, "help!"

As she spoke, she saw a shadow in the sky above her, moving in a downwards spiral at a ferocious speed. Nessarose's eyes widened and her mouth opened to scream as the house landed on the Wicked Witch of the East.

The feet, protruding from the farm house that had brought about the end of her young life, clad in striped socks and delicate ruby shoes were all that remained of her. Of the Wicked Witch of the East; Her Eminence; of Nessarose Thropp.

_Ding, dong the witch is dead! Which old Witch? The Wicked witch! Ding, dong, the wicked witch is dead! She's gone where the goblins go yo-ho, yo-ho, yo-ho, yo-ho, so ring the bells out…_

**Author's Note: None-reviewers will be crushed by farm-houses. Nah, I'm joking of course. But I'd really appreciate reviews! Cheers!**


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